


Lost Girls

by Ink_Vein



Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game)
Genre: Dissociation as a coping mechanism, F/M, Frank just needs his own warning tag, Multiple Realities, Nathan character study, Other, Post-Sacrifice Chloe Ending, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rachel character study, Underage Drinking, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms In General, What has this even become?, deep Frank character study, substitution as a coping mechanism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-18
Updated: 2018-01-18
Packaged: 2018-12-31 05:47:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12125862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ink_Vein/pseuds/Ink_Vein
Summary: What am I doing? How do I even go about this? My only connection to this man is a tenuous thread: one that if pulled might mean the death of the fabric. Dare I tug it? My left hand instinctively raises, pulsing, letting me know I can undo my fears.I stuff it in my pocket and raise my right to tentatively knock.





	1. tore out all my vitals, washed them pink and clean

**Author's Note:**

> Many people think Victoria and Max would bond after a Sacrifice Chloe ending. I have a different view.  
> This plot just wouldn't stop bugging me, so I got it down on paper within two nights. May be a oneshot, may turn into more.

I tend to dissociate when bad things happen. It doesn't even have to be inherently traumatic. I do it all the time -- when I don't understand something in class, when a teacher puts pressure or attention on me, when I hear raised voices, bad grades, events, not knowing how to comfort someone. The list goes on. I don't cry or scream or even emote that much. I detach. I exist on a different plane to cope, and apparently it's a faux pas.

 

I can't help but do the same as our procession marches into the graveyard. I'd left my camera and ear buds at the dorm for once: even _I_ knew that was rude at a funeral. However, music still resounds in my head as if the buds were sitting in my ears [I don't know how much of an indie fan Chloe was, but I think even she'd appreciate the build-up of "Spanish Sahara" as we shuffled forward.] and I line up shots as if my Polaroid's in my eerily calm hands [The fading light frames those in front of me, turning Joyce into a Pulitzer-winning angel.]

My dress is itching my shy knees, dancing along them with every shuffle forward. My idleness is itching my always-busy hands. My slow pace is itching my mind, so used to action by this point. In my plane of indie rock and angelic mothers, none of that exists. Wait for that blessed crescendo; steady the viewfinder.

 

The blue butterfly throws me for a loop. [I NEED MY CAMERA. I CAN START AGAIN!] That is, until I follow its flight. Even as it soars up into the clouds -- a 'The End' set-up if I ever saw one -- it's drawn my eyes over to a line of foliage. Blonde hair and rusty fur dance between the leaves. _**'Those were my fucking beans!'**_ An unwarranted crackle wracks my spine.

 

I excuse myself early from the mourners. I don't need to mourn: I need to do something. None of them know this. They take my flight as difficulty coping, a need of decompression -- family friend privileges. A normal person would stay by her maybe-lover's grave, but I had no need to mourn this Chloe. As sad as it was, she was a stranger; a five-year dissociation product. She wasn't my Chloe: she was wrath, lust, sorrow, greed -- and Max-left-behind had already mourned her.

Warren tries to touch my shoulder. This is the Warren I ignored. The Warren Max-left-behind never thought to text back or even watch the movies on his flash drive, much less give it back. Dana had never taken it from that Max: it still sat neglected on the floor where she'd knocked it when turning off her phone alarm one morning. This Warren hadn't been kissed by me, a last second "fuck it" experiment when he'd saved me with a photo or believed I was capable of creating, and destroying, a storm. I pull away, burned by his touch. He slouches away, burned by my eyes. We part on these terms.

I make my way towards the line of foliage. Blonde and rust have vanished, leaving only too-green. Luckily, I know where to look.

 

It's barely an hour before sneakers scuff against concrete and sand. There are no dead birds, no beached whales, no wheelchair tracks. No violent storm. This beach is foreign to me. Too calm, too sunny, too empty. But a familiar RV sits desolate at the merge of sand and trees. I'm armed with only my ratty hoodie this time, bereaved of the tool of murder that shed so much blood here in another life.

What am I doing? How do I even go about this? My only connection to this man is a tenuous thread: one that if pulled might mean the death of the fabric. Dare I tug it? My left hand instinctively raises, pulsing, letting me know I can undo my fears.

I stuff it in my pocket and raise my right to tentatively knock. Immediately, snarls radiate from the mobile home, dishes crash, and a paltry yell of "Make your own shit!" rings out.

In a split-second decision, I yell back just as loudly, "My colon does that for me!"

A pale face looking none too pleased with my smartassery appears in the window over the kitchen sink. Slowly, a one-finger salute smushes against the window. I just channel Chloe as best I can, plastering the biggest shit-eating grin on my face and stretching up to almost smush my own face in the window. "Drugs make me shit. Got anything else to sell?"

That brings him right out the door. I move back just in time to avoid being crushed, but the porcelain beneath his boots isn't so lucky. So _that's_ what the crash was. Frank Bowers uses the doorway to support his bulky frame, reeking of stale Heineken and nicotine. A rancid smell billows out with him and I can't decide whether it's his dishes or himself. His arm flops like a fish as he gesticulates, a rusty mutt still snarling behind him. [ _Get the treat-treat boy!_ ] "You bullshit like Price but knock like a virgin." Frank is more drunk than I have ever seen him; not that I have that much to go off of. Old!Max would have felt threatened. I, on the other hand, was just tired of standing. He eyes me, ever-so-slowly and warily. "Tha'fuck you want, girlie?" The curse almost sends his bulk tumbling down the steps with the way he throws himself into it. 

I swallow and straighten my Chloe-mask. "Sit down, Frank. You're about to keel over." A growl and a tightened jaw are all the response I get as he considers my order, then he's ambling down the steps. There's a small table, barely big enough for one person, nestled under the awning stretching from his RV. Beside it sit two plastic woven fold-out chairs that couldn't hold a hamster and one flat-out torn to shreds one strewn to the side. Grumbling, Frank, to my horror, more falls into his seat than willingly sits. Cheap plastic groans and Frank quickly tilts back a few inches before the body's falling response finally kicks in and he flails, thankfully righting himself.

The same cheap plastic creaks underneath me after I carefully make my way over to the other seat and ever-so-slowly lower myself down. Treating Frank like a wild animal is probably the best course of action: no sudden movements. After settling in himself, Frank immediately starts checking the multitudes of green and brown bottles strewn about the table, chucking them if empty and downing whatever contents if not. The flying bottles take care to miss Pompidou, but I'm not afforded the same courtesy. Ducking for cover, old!Max once again feels the need to interrogate me on just what I think I'm doing here. I shut her up by, as gross as it is, following Frank's example.

 

Thirty minutes and ten rank gulps later, I'm fuzzy and floating and warm. Coming here makes much more sense with liquid recklessness now flowing through me. After watching me follow his lead, Frank seems far more respectful of my presence, if you can even call it that. Bottles had stopped whizzing past my head, so I'd considered that progress. The problem is, now I'm having trouble focussing, both mentally and visually.

 

Two more full proffered bottles later, my thoughts have scattered completely, replaced by things that should have never been able to climb the wall I built. Things I shouldn't know. Events that never happened. Ghosts that don't exist. Suddenly, words are pouring from my lips and the tears are pooling far more than my eyelids can dam them up: "I watched you die here." Cool concrete scratches my cheek and I wonder why I'm now laying down, facing away from who I'm addressing. "Right here," I whimper, scratching at the spot I swear blood had been pooling. Now, it's dry and grey. Where are the bodies? The blood? Much like a dying fish, my body flips to face what must be -- has to be --- the ghost of Frank.

A spot of clarity hits. Frank is the one person who can spot bullshit a mile away. Skeptical eyes find raw truth in mine. A very much real hand shoots into my line of vision. No words are spoken: grunts of exertion, the squeak of cheap plastic, a water bottle offered, and a loaded look. Realities converge and claw up my throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title inspired by one of the most beautiful Life is Strange fanfic: where the bones will show through by majorrager: http://archiveofourown.org/works/5094392  
> This is by far not my first fanfic, but my first posted on here and my first finished Life is Strange one. I have 3 others in the works. Lemme know if I should continue this one or if it's good as is.  
> And yes, that "Drugs make me shit" line was Max making a pun about Nathan cutting them with laxatives. I think Frank knows it, too.


	2. Better than "never sure"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter that reveals how much of a Stephen King and Guillermo del Toro fan I am.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to this fic actually getting some action (thanks Zandar422, and 7 anonymous readers for your kudos! Also, thank you so much SouthernRust for your comments and support, and dragonwings_703 for both your kudos and your bookmark! And the other 100-odd of you that decided to read this!) and actually getting some ideas, I've decided to add to it. There will probably be a third chapter as well because this world just won't leave me alone.  
> Also, this fic now has a theme song: [ Neon Crimson](https://youtu.be/bYyikzGSDsU) by The Paper Kites  
> Check out [ A Silent Cause](https://youtu.be/u1Q-e4Z_Mpo) as well for some Frank/Rachel vibes  
> Both come from twelvefour, an album by The Paper Kites that sits snugly in my Top Three Albums Ever.

     When am I ever going to find that last bottle? Three hours it feels I've been searching. Two clatter together between the fingers of my right hand, another two colliding softly within my messenger bag. Chloe _owes_ me. Some of these bottles smell ranker than the junkyard itself. At least this time isn't as difficult as trying to navigate the junkyard in a dark void with Frank, Nathan, and Jeffershit searching for me.

     Wait... _what_ _?_

     That thought was strange. Have I done that before? It's hard to recall. Shaking my head, I move forward to continue my trek for The Last Bottle, but find myself in a different part of the junkyard. Busted and torn-open washers and dryers lay spent about me (they seem to be a given here. I've seen at least ten already). A street sign, a swing set, and buckets are also cast here and there on this small grassy hill. A large neon sign, HOTEL in huge orangey letters, looms out of the chaos. But the junk that really steals the show towers a few feet above me, even falling over.

     "Pacific Steve's Famous Crab," I read proudly, before it dawns on me that it's in the junkyard for a reason. Slowly, my eyes tilt down to the awful 3 words spelt out on its marquis. "Building for Lease..." I whisper, disheartened. No way! I loved this place and their yummy hush puppies. My stomach chimes in with a nostalgic rumble. Well that was one childhood Arcadia Bay memory I wouldn't be rediscovering.

    A flapping sound catches my attention, loud even with the noisy train and the ambience of the Bay's wildlife, somehow. It's _deafening_ actually. And growing louder with every flap. I turn to my left to find the source: just a few steps behind me is a piece of cloth, stripped from its owner by a sharp triangle of metal. _OUCH_. Glad I noticed that before it did a number on my hoodie, too. Compelled to touch it by some instinct, I do, disregarding all 'don't get tetanus' common sense. The scrap is soft, despite being sun-bleached and hanging there for who knows how long. It's a skull, criss-crossed over with white and red and black, making it look static-y. The side with the skull is anything but soft, which means it's probably that iron-on stuff. Speaking of skulls, it reminds me of the muscle shirt Chloe is wearing. Is this hers?

     "Hey, Chlo?" I shout, and the atmosphere seems to rumble with it. The forest to my left crumbles into oblivion, as does the junk to my immediate right. In front of me, cars and washers and dryers and boats sink into a white void. The shrieks of it all have me doubling over almost as much as the rewind.

     "Yeah, SuperMax?" I hear echoed from somewhere, but can't catch sight of Chloe anywhere on this swatch of land that's left.

     Behind me, there's a furious scratching. I slowly turn to find the grass pulsing like a Xenomorph chestbuster. Bigger and bigger it pulses until the Alien emerges in the form of a corpse, grass exploding open like Kane's chest. Except this corpse is crawling out of the hole, limbs bent at impossible angles, skin practically dripping from bones, maggots falling from the open eye sockets and jaw. Just one section of hair is left: it's long and blonde and plops to the ground beside other pieces of skin and scraps of clothing. The not-corpse fixes its one good eye on me. "Heya, Max," floats a sing-song feminine voice, even though her jaw dropped and stayed there after the first syllable. "Shit, you found me," not-corpse continues, though her jaw still hangs limp and there's no tongue. A skeletal index finger, its casing swinging softly under it, rises to poke me in the knee. "Your turn." I swear she smiles, though the jaw never moves. I can hear the sneer in her voice.

     Another scoffs somewhere behind it. "Yeah, just try not to take another six months, Rach." I should have never looked up. As grisly as this last sight was, the next almost makes me hurl. From the junk under the Pacific Steve's sign, sits up Chloe, scrap falling from her. A single bullet hole graces the crux of her T-zone and when she turns her head to unhook the sleeve of her jacket from its captor, I spot a baseball-sized crater in the back of her beanie. Brains fly from it when she whips her head back to grin at me, sleeve finally free. She rises, spilling more scrap and garbage, and steps up beside the now-rising Rachel. Trails of blood trickle down her face and neck, but both they and the holes keep flickering out of existence. Blooms of red on her chest and stomach keep replacing them, flickering out as the hole flickers back in. Her sleeve keeps flickering between a small tear on the elbow and a large gap revealing a bloody ridge that travels up her arm. Bullet to the stomach, bullet to the chest, crushed by train, bullet to the head. All of Chloe's deaths keep flashing before me until they finally sync. However, then her hair's no longer blue: in place of dyed punk hair and a beanie are sandy locks, still cut asymmetrically. Her head suddenly drops to her shoulder like she's curious, eyes blown wide. Morphine-high.

     Stuttering steps start up behind me. "Though it can't compare to the five years it took to find you, huh?" Another blonde behind me is speaking to Chloe. I can only see her hair right now, but the style and clothes are a dead giveaway. Kate shuffles forward, head flopped over her shoulder like a scarf, neck loose and twisted. Crimson and rust stain her golden bun and monochrome clothes. One knee is nonexistant, leg limp and dragging. A hand is twisted the wrong way. She uses the other to feel for her bun and wrenches her head up by it to stare at me. One side of her face is scratched off completely, cheekbone protuding out. Still, she manages a half-grin with the side of her face not flattened. Kate joins the grisly duo behind me, making a gut-clenching trio.

     They all stare, Chloe and Kate grinning; Rachel, with her jaw still hanging loose. She stumbles forward a bit. "Well?" Rachel prods, and the grins border on obscene.

     "Hide," Kate adds.

     "We'll seek," chime in the other two.

     Panic blinds me as I spin in circles, searching for any way out, but I'm still stranded on this small swatch of land. As the trio closes what eyes they can and counts in Stephen King-worthy unison, I consider my options: I could jump off the side, hide where Chloe was, or jump in Rachel's grave. In this realm, the first option seems the most sane. Divergent it is.

     I'm a few inches from flinging myself into the beyond when suddenly Evan appears out of the aether, head caved in on the top left side. "You'll never believe the shot I got, Max!" he exclaims, completely unlike his normal condescending self. Blood drips, long and thick, onto his shoulder and his glasses just hang off his right ear since his left is gone.

     Terrified, I stumble backward and propel into something sharp. With a yelp, I twist around to find Alyssa, a wooden beam through her middle. "Oh, look," she drones, Brooke-like, blood gurgling up from her throat to cascade down the corners of her mouth. "'Super' Max to save the day."

    I shove her violently and run, looking back to make sure they're not following me, which turns out to be a grave mistake. Into Rachel's shallow grave I tumble. Three heads peer over the ridge at me when I cough up dust and look up. Then one by one all five ghouls jump in after me, Alyssa last and stabbing through some of the others. The beam strikes the ground just between my left arm and my ribs.

     Victoria is to my right. She flops toward me with a sleepy smile. "Sleepovers are the best..."

     I screech and sit up straight, throwing them off and kicking them away. Still, hands snake up my calves, grasping, grasping. A rancid smell clogs my nose, sucking up all oxygen. I screech and screech, tugging away, when suddenly a low voice catches my attention.

     "Hells _bells_ , girlie, have you got some pipes!" Blonde hair and broad shoulders come closer and I scramble back into something hard. Hands are grasping again and I kick out furiously. Gently, he pulls them away. He pulls dingy sheets away. The hands are sheets. The rancid smell is that food moulding in his sink. Or him. The solid thing behind me is a headboard.

     That surges me right back into a panic. "Why am I here? What-what happened to me? Where's---" I almost ask 'Where's Chloe' but I know damn well where she is. Chloe's six-feet-under and this Frank is a stranger. Square one.

     Pompidou plods over and rests his head on the edge of the bed, exhaling loudly in exasperation at the noise. I'm not calm enough yet to console him.

     Frank consoles me. "Too much beer tends ta do that to a person," he laughs. "I even stopped ya at two and hydrated tha'fuck outta ya, but ya were delirious by that point. Spoutin' all kind o' freaky shit." I frantically eye the sheets and he catches my gaze. "Ain't nothin' but a nightmare, sweetie." Not chancing any more words, I ferociously shake my head and knock on the headboard behind me, gaze wary. Frank's eyes blow wide. Immediately, he straightens and throws his hands up in innocence. "All G-rated. I ain't that kinda man, hun." My head cocks, an eyebrow flying up in questioning. "Ya passed out! I dropped ya in here and slept _allllllll_ the way outside, Pompidou as my witness." The canine in question snorts in assurance, bobbing his head. Frank gives him an appreciative pat-pat and his face scrunches up in delight, tail beating the doorway to death. _Kathump kathump_. The steady rhythm sets the tone for the next awkward minute of silence, both Frank and I diverting our attention to anything else. Finally, he clears his throat. "All those delusions musta worn you out somethin' fierce. Ya just keeled over an hour into it." A mutter floats over to me. "Mighta been the Heineken, too..."

     Silence reigns once more, except for Pompidou's snuffling. He's left us both in our time of need, plodding off to find better entertainment. Frank absentmindedly pats his thigh, picking at stubble underneath his chin with the other hand, while I pull a loose thread in the sheets and try to relax each muscle in turn. The words ghost through my lips, barely loud enough to hear. "What all...did I say?" There's an enormous rock lodged in my throat that I can't quite swallow down.

     "Weird-ass, fucked-up shit, girlie," he chuckles. "I'd say yer high, but I know better." Sinking down to my level on the edge of the bed, Frank still seems to loom over me as he leans forward a bit. "Ya don't look the type... Still..." All is quiet except the _taptap_ on his temple. "You gotta fucked-up psyche, kid; and I dunno whether to getcha high'r'drunk'r'what for ya ta explain ta me why yer here bullshittin' me." Turning away, the noise that falls from his lips is somewhere between another chuckle and a sigh. "But yer not bullshittin' me." Rusty eyes meet my own. Everything about him is blonde and rust.

     It's just a breath, but I echo back, "I'm not" in assurance, though he doesn't need it. He knows I'm not lying. I'm right about the BS meter. A dam breaks and I curl forward; sobbing, but all my tears are spent.

 

* * *

 

 

     Obscure folk rock trickles out of the mobile home to our left. The music choice isn't mine at all, but I end up recognizing a few songs even with my limited taste. Who knew Frank liked this stuff?

     Most of the music is swallowed by laughter, rumbly grumbly rolls. "Kid couldn't even pick most of the time! A few rattles an' you'd think she got possessed. The amount 'n' variations of 'Fuck' that spewed forth surprised even me!" A plastic bottle is tipped back, stifling the laughter just a moment.

     I take this opportunity to input. "Mostly in the form of 'Fuck' and 'You' and 'Door,' right? And in that order." My own laugh croaks out. God... Has it been that long since I laughed? Frank eyes me, his expression unreadable, and nods.

     After just a moment of speculation, he dives right back into hearty nostalgia. "Ya'd think I'd never shown 'er a thing. Was like me trynna eat with chopsticks." Frank Bowers, in all his bulky glory, launches into a goofy pantomime of Chloe poking dimwittedly at a door.

     I choke on my water, trying not to spray down Pompidou, who's loyally at my feet, while Frank knocks back the rest of his to stifle more laughter. No Heineken today. Frank had forbidden it. Today is about the BS meter, and despite the subject material we both need to be sober. That hasn't kept both of us from avoiding the topic like the plague, however. Well...we're just postponing it to indulge in nostalgia, right?

     After he's satisfied the pantomime has done its job, Frank sits back and sighs. How the chairs haven't bitten the dust by now is beyond me. He stares up at the awning like he's finding constellations instead of the ratty fabric, even though it's still the middle of the day. "Those were the years... Simba, Timon, 'n' Pumba. Hakuna matata shit..." It takes a moment, but suddenly he's sitting straight again and choking out, "I mean--"

     A shake of my water bottle cuts him off. "I know about you and Rachel. That you were...together." My comment stays vague. I'm not sure of the extent to which they were exclusive... And I'm not sure if he wants to know yet that I've rooted through his dirty laundry both metaphorically and quite literally.

     The responding snort is _loud_. "Together..." The word rolls off his tongue and plops to the ground. "No one is ever _together_ when it comes to Rachel Amber. It's like..." His tongue clicks, his empty bottle is thrown into the great beyond, and words elude him.

     I stay silent. This is important, but I won't get anything without giving him time. Old-Max chides me to be polite and just drop it; I drown her with more water.

     _GlugGlugGlug_. Frank has opened a new bottle and we're both avoiding speech and eye contact while drinking. It feels as if he is just going to keep evading, so I set myself up to begrudgingly follow Old-Max's advice, when suddenly Frank clears his throat. " _Damn_... Going sober fer this was a terrible idea. Hangover plus deep talk plus the added benefit of no alcohol ta numb yerself equals pain all-fuckin'-'round..." He leans forward dramatically, bottle tossed onto the table and skidding across it. After a few moments of holding his head, he sits up abruptly. "But ya scare the _shit_ outta me when yer drunk." Frank's face is solemn, etched with something dark. I bet he's wishing he had no BS meter so he could just assume I was batshit crazy and move along. But he knows I'm telling the truth, just as much as he knew we were lying lifetimes ago.

     "Frank..." It slips out, unbidden. I'm about to tell him to just forget about the whole damn thing, but he leans even more forward, eyes wider than I've ever seen them. Digging and scrabbling rust.

     A slap rings out and the table shakes with the force of it, finally sending his half-empty bottle off the edge. His hands splay on the table, allowing him to lean closer until we're almost nose-to-nose. "Don't..." he puffs into my eyes, still stale Heineken and nicotine, though I haven't seen him smoke once. I blink it away still. "...open your mouth... I don't..." Frank's whole body seems to deanimate, slumping back into his chair. It groans for him. "...I don't want ta hear anymore." The tension drains from his face until he resembles a corpse. Horrible memories flood to the forefront of my mind. I mask them with the concentration of chugging the rest of my bottle, almost missing Frank's next words. "No one is ever _together_ when it comes to Rachel Amber." They're bitter words without the bite. Simply a statement that would be bitter from anyone else, but just a fact coming from Frank. "It's like...trapping wind in a jar. Just stale air. Rachel graces you with her presence, a piece of her that no one else gets. She gave everyone a piece an' broke herself apart in the process. I don't think any of us really knew Rachel. We looked, but didn't _see_."

     Awe washes over me at Frank's words. How did a man who speaks and feels and  _thinks_ so deeply end up in this life? Even in all my noseyness, I hadn't uncovered this Frank. Maybe Chloe had. What had she seen on that computer? What had she known that she masked so effortlessly with inappropriate jokes?

     Frank is speaking again and I've missed half of it. Damn it, Max! "--knew that. I think even Chloe did, even if she didn't want to. Only person who never understood Rach was a free spirit was Nate. Kid latched onta whatever he could with a death grip an' wouldn't take no for an answer." A crack splinters his words. "He was a good kid... That shithead only ruined..." His speech tapers off into a frenzied mess, but it's not hard to guess where he was going.

     "Jefferson..." It's a whisper, but Frank hears just the same.

     His head snaps up, eyes on fire. " _Don't say that name_ ," is the growl he sends my way. "The fucker ruined everyone he touched. He stripped them! Rach and Nate were kids! _Kids_ _!_ And he stripped them of it. And now? And now they've both paid for what _he did_..." Frank doesn't cry, though he sounds as if he might. A tremble works through his body, face stony and crimson, fists clenched on the edge of the table until I'm sure it'll break, but his eyes are completely dry. Tired, even.

     He is 100% right, though. Jefferson, because he was one of the few good things in Nathan's life, set in motion Rachel's death. I had no doubt that Nathan was the way he was because he thought he killed Rachel. I was still sketchy on the details of that, and the only one who knew the truth and could tell it somewhat reliably was the victim herself.

     All the breath in my lungs escapes me, and with it come the words "She was his fucking sun."

     Frank's head dips and rises ever so slowly in a sage nod.

     After being so used to Chloe's smothering jealousy, I've expected everyone to be like that, especially when it came to their Rachel. However, Frank seemed content with his version, more concerned with what the loss did to Nathan than staking claim on who deserved to mourn her. Once again awe washes through me. This man is a prism.

     _Plodplodplod_. Suddenly a rusty head is banging up against the table to peer at me from underneath it. I'm so startled and distracted that by the time I look up Frank is gone.

     A voice pipes up from the trailer. "I can't do this. Feel free ta leave." Pompidou trots over to the opening happily, darting inside between bulky legs. An empty look, and the screen door whines closed between us.


End file.
